It wasn’t supposed to be this way.
The Brotherhood was supposed to help people. And in the beginning, he’d been able to pretend it was. He’d been able to ignore the worst of it, telling himself that those they were exiling or executing must deserve it. Elder Anders wouldn’t order it unless it was so. Gradually, it got harder to keep believing that. Gradually, it became clear that the Brotherhood was doing more harm than good.
Their crimes were many. They “appropriated” resources from nearby settlements, very often leaving the settlers with next to nothing. Resistance in any form was severely punished; anything from “not according a Brother enough respect” to “refusal to cooperate” to “suspicion of disloyalty”-all were crimes in Anders’s eyes, and all warranted punitive measures. It reminded him of something he’d read in the Histories-a war that involved the entire world. The enemy powers had operated like this, demanding absolute obedience from its citizens. It felt strange, thinking that way. He knew the Brotherhood could be a force for good. They drove raiders and ferals away from settlements, built infrastructure, restored order! That sort of thing sometimes required a heavy hand. At least that was what he kept telling himself. All while doing his best to ignore the frightened glances some of the citizens threw his way whenever he walked through the settlements.
That wasn’t what he wanted though. He didn’t want to be feared, didn’t want people scurrying out of his path, didn’t want alarmed mothers summoning their children inside for some pretended reason just to get them out of his sight. He would never harm one of these people! And yet…what if one of them were hiding a synth in their back room? What if one of these families had a member that was a ghoul in their garden shed they kept secret for fear of them being exiled…or worse? He’d only gone into battle against Super Mutants-hulking brutes with a mind only for killing. He’d distinguished himself greatly-mowing down an entire swarm and then switching to hand to hand when he’d run out of ammo. People still talked about the body count, about how he’d spiked the warlord through the neck with a steel post. Jack…didn’t really care for those details. He hadn’t done it because he enjoyed killing them; he’d done it because two of his squad’s power armor fusion cells had ruptured from a nearby explosion, rendering them immobile. He’d sent his squire running for reinforcements and prepared for a last stand. But people only ever talked about how he’d “kicked those monsters’ ass!” and “fucked them up real good that day.”
He’d managed to keep under Anders’s radar by, surprisingly, being himself. Humble, hardworking, quiet. Anders had, more than once, urged him to accept the adulations as “due tribute to a member of the Brotherhood.” Jack had politely rebuffed him, citing only doing his duty or the entire Brotherhood deserved the credit or not a hero just a man. Looking back, maybe he should have bit the bullet and faked some enthusiasm. Because now they were suspicious.
He’d heard them talking-heard his name, “worried”, “treason”, “lacking”, the phrase “test his loyalty”. That had been enough. There was an upcoming mission two days out. He’d been tapped to run point, and now he knew they planned to force his hand. Put him right up front where he would have to shoot to kill. To flush out those that were hiding from them, the invaders. To gun down those attacking and the ones retreating. He couldn’t do that. He wouldn’t do that. So…he made a plan.
Said plan should probably have involved more thought than sabotaging three out of four of the vertibirds and stealing the fourth one. But he’d been short on time. He should have grabbed weapons. Should have grabbed their weapons really. Especially the grenade launcher someone had fired up his aircraft’s arse. But he’d gotten away. For now. Oh sure, they’d pursue him. If for no other reason they’d want their aircraft back. And as far as he was concerned, if they could find it they could have it. He planned on being far far away from it as soon as he landed. And to that end, he kept the bird in the air as long as possible. Longer than he should have, considering he only started worrying about landing when he smelled smoke.
“Shit.” he cursed, looking around for the parachutes. “ Fuck.” He’d planned on landing, getting into power armor and walking on out of here. That no longer looked possible. He was panicking now. The aircraft was tilting downwards, gradually picking up speed. He needed to get out. Right the fuck now. He desperately pulled on the chute, hoping he got the straps right, and flung himself out the door.
He didn’t have the altitude to wait until he cleared the aircraft before he pulled the ripcord. He was lucky in the respect that the bird was rapidly accelerating towards the ground and didn’t snag the billowing chute. However, that was where his luck ended.
Jack’s cry of pain as the shrapnel tore into his body was lost in the din of the blast. He was far enough away that none of the fire caught him, but the shockwave sent him spinning out of control. Yanking on the control cords did him no good, he was going to crash into the trees. Hard.
He remembered seeing stuff like this in old pre-blast movies. Someone parachuted out of an aircraft, the parachute got caught in the trees, and they could either cut themselves free or climb down to safety. Well, as it turned out, the movies had lied to him. The trees managed to slow his fall some, but they in no way stopped him. He hit the ground like a load of bricks, unconsciousness rising up to meet him like a crashing wave.
The first thing he discerned when he woke up was pain. Pain in his side, pain in his legs, pain everywhere. Mentally he fought the urge to just slip back under, to just let all of it go. Call it determined, call it stubborn, but he didn’t want to die. Not out here in the wilderness at any rate. Except…he didn’t seem to be out in the wilderness. He was on something soft…a mattress? And pillows. Carefully, Jack began going over his extremities. Toes wiggle? Check. Fingers twitch? Check. Breathing? Painful as all fuck, but check. He opened his eyes. Oof. Bright. He closed them again, then cracked them. Better. He could see a ceiling. He was in…a cabin. Settlers? He didn’t know of any this far from any large settlements. Slowly, carefully, he rolled his head to the side. There was a man on the other side of the room. So…a settler. A kind soul then. He opened his mouth, tried to speak. Nothing came out. He closed his mouth, swallowed around the parch in his throat, and tried again.
“Hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…” was all he managed. Well. That would be a spectacular first impression.
While keeping an eye on his patient, Arthur kept himself busy in the large, one-room cabin by prepping supplies. The man was an unexpected mouth to feed, and he wanted to get a head start on making sure there was enough for everyone. He fixed up meat for jerky, started some additional jars of fruits and vegetables for preservation, and began boiling more water. At his feet padded three dogs, excited by the mixture of smells - Athos, Porthos, and Aramis. On the nearby windowsill D'artagnan lazed, his long tail swishing slowly. The tomcat feigned indifference, but his gaze slid between Arthur and their guest with shrewd interest. Constance and Anne had settled themselves at his patient’s feet and were purring softly. It was a good sign, Arthur thought. The animals weren’t upset by him.
He’d been at the stove for most of that day, stepping away only to see to his animals or check on his patient. He’d just sealed up a jar of pickled eggs when the sound of speech had him turning to look at the bed. The man’s eyes were open and staring at him. Blue and brilliant… like the oceans back home used to be. Pushing aside the slight pang of homesickness, Arthur grinned. Collecting some dried fruit and a jug of water, he moved to a chair beside the bed. “Glad to see you’re finally awake. Let me help you sit up… see if we can get some liquid in you, alright?” Then, without really asking, he was leaning over the other man and gently pulling him into a more upright position, resting him against the headboard. At the man’s feet, Constance and Anne made mewls of disapproval at being jostled, but settled back quickly enough.
“My name’s Arthur,” he spoke, pouring a glass of room-temperature tea, something herbal to help with pain and healing. “The ladies keeping you company are Anne and Constance, but if they’re bothering you I can tell them to find other places to be.” He held out the glass. “Would you like to try on your own, or do you want help?”
